Something From Nothing
by Kyoko kitty-chan
Summary: Pitch Black has been trapped in his lair since the battle with the Guardian's but when someone unexpectedly makes an appearance he realizes he may not have to wait much longer. This person may have bigger problems than being the Nightmare King's hostage though. BlackIce
1. Revenge

There was only fear for a long time.

He knew of nothing else as it clawed at his throat, scratching his voice until even his whispers died out in the shadows. He didn't have a heartbeat but he could've sworn that something was pounding in his chest, desperate to escape this blind terror that had seized and refused to let go. It was agonizing and he didn't know how he could cling to his sanity in such a state, but somehow he did. There was something every present at the back of his thoughts, just out of reach, that led him onwards through the fear. It was only until later that he could discern what it was.

He didn't know how long he had been in that state until the fear had slowly starting to ebb away and he could make sense of the world surrounding him once more.

The first distinct thing he could remember was the smell of rotting flesh and the idea of it being his never truly left him as he faded out once again.

The second thing he remembered was a pair of yellow eyes watching him excitedly. They were so close that he had mistaken them for the sun and cried out in pain from heat that did not exist. He didn't stay for long as he faded into darkness once more.

The third thing that came was not a sense but a memory. A memory of things that had once been and things that were still to come, and in a desperate attempt to cling he called out a name, "Pitch Black," and was released once more into darkness.

The fourth thing was an emotion. Something that boiled under his skin, that sang in his veins. It was hot and blind and it allowed him to stand on his feet. It allowed him to feel the drips of water falling from the caverns head. It allowed him to move his hands over cool, damp stone and to open unblinking yellow eyes of his own. It allowed him to become once more. And this time he did not fade away.

Years afterwards he gathered strength and the emotion continued to coil in taught muscles and unwavering eyes. The name he had called out before came back with renewed strength as he remembered it to be his own.

Pitch roamed his home with a vigor he hadn't previously possessed and the yellow eyes that had been staring at him long ago became recognizable as his nightmares. The same that had turned on him after the Guardian's War, which he had dubbed himself thinking of the Guardian's newest member, and that had fed off of his fear for a long long time. A time he will never truly remember or regain.

He hated them, hated them for betraying their master, their creator! And the nightmares shrank back into the shadows whenever Pitch looked for too long, for while they are made of fear they can also experience it. They are not ill creatures who seek death so they rightly retreat when they see their master's brighter yellow eyes seeking their own.

While seeing his creatures react in such a way filled Pitch with satisfaction he realized that in order to truly gather his wits he would need them once again at his beck and call. Pitch had discovered that he had been trapped in his lair a couple of years back. There was a form of magic placed over the openings, no doubt the Sandman's handiwork, and Pitch realized with a burning anger starting low in his belly that he was not leaving anytime soon. If he had any hope of leaving he would need his nightmares.

So within time Pitch stopped letting his gaze become one of hatred and became one of obedience instead. The nightmares started to come from the shadows and one brave one that Pitch had always liked named Onyx braved her master's anger and came close. Pitch's hand wavered with that emotion still circulating through his blood but at last it came down to rest on her mane and combed gently through. Onyx neighed in contentment and the other nightmares approached cautiously in future weeks, coming once again to trust and obey their creator.

Now with his nightmares by his side Pitch had time to plan. He holed up in his library for a year studying the Sandman's magic, hoping to find a way to break it but his magic as he had discovered during the Guardian's War had persevered despite being struck down. He had to find a way to completely dismantle it if he had any chance of escaping. With a dejected sigh he closed one book and turned to another when a loud crash echoed off the cavern walls. His head shot up when he realized one of his nightmares hadn't been the cause of the sound. He traveled through his shadows to the main foyer and stepped out, large yellow eyes as round as saucers as he watched an angel descend from the sky.

An array of white fell swiftly but to Pitch time had slowed down. He could make out a shape underneath the white mass he had mistakenly taken for wings and with a sense of familiarity realized that it was snowflakes covering the body. As the snow started to dissipate he could make out a face and a shock of white hair before it all came to a halt with a sickening crunch as the body connected with the floor.

Pitch stood in shock for what seemed like hours. He watched fallen snow turn red and a twisted smile graced his face.

He approached the body slowly drinking in the sight. Lacerations decorated the arms and torso like a misconstrued Jackson Pollock painting and white hair was slowly turning red with blood. The bottoms of the feet were burned to a charcoal and some embers still glowed hot when Pitch looked closely. A blue hoodie was torn apart as tatters of fabric lay across a bloody chest as remnants. A Sheppard's crook lay a few feet away with blood flowing down the cracks, staining the floor. Pitch bent down next to the body and turned the face towards himself to confirm what he knew to be true with a racing desire.

He knew that beneath those closed lids were magical blue eyes the color of a frozen lake and that the lips slightly parted with shallow breaths were just filled with sarcastic comebacks waiting to be unleashed. And Pitch's twisted smile grew as he combed back the boy's bloody hair and said with all the glee in the world, "Jack Frost… it seems we just can't leave things where we left them, can we?"

And then Pitch placed a name to that thought that had kept him from insanity during the fear so long ago. How could he have forgotten the name of what was singing in his head, pounding in his chest; tightening his muscles. But looking down at Jack's frail form he remembered now. He remembered the word as it wormed its way into every crevice of his body till he felt like a God… It was revenge.

Pitch scooped up the boy's broken body and without another word walked through the shadows with the Guardian's newest member. The only sound that echoed through the cavern was the sound of a coarse tongue being dragged over the cavern rocks as the nightmare's cleaned Jack Frost's blood from the floor.


	2. What Winter Is

In his early days, when he was new to the world and his powers still raw, Jack Frost killed. He killed without remorse, and without hesitation. He did not do it out of cruelty or spite, he did it simply because he is. He is Jack Frost, the embodiment of winter. And winter does not get to choose. He did not get to choose. It simply is, and simply was. And that was all.

Winter coursed through his veins, turned his skin blue, and moisturized chapped lips with bright red. He was always cold, but when it had time to build up it began to hurt. The cold would swirl around in a place that he thought once had been warm, but could no longer remember if that was true. It would hurt, it would cut, and the only way to make it stop was to release it. And he did.

He was blind during these releasing's. Snow seemed to pour from his eyes if he held them open for too long. Ice shot from his cries. It was unbearable, but after it raged within and out for a long time he was finally able to see and be once more. The world would be covered in white. And it looked like a fairy tale that the children of villages would whisper to their friends. It looked magical to them; they just never knew how true that was. But Jack Frost knew it wasn't a fairy tale. He knew what lurked beneath the snow.

After his blizzards he would hover for a while above his doings. He could see cottages buried with families trapped inside. Livestock that had preserved harsh winters in the past couldn't continue anymore. And he could sometimes see something pushing through the snow. From far away it looked like daisies pushing up, fighting back against the white death, but when one would get closer to inspect he would realize that nothing could survive these blizzards. The fingers grasping at the air in a last effort at life were only further proof. Winter didn't get to choose who lived and who died.

Jack Frost would like to say that he remembers the first person he killed, but he cannot tell you even if he wanted. He cannot remember how many have died in the harsh winters he has given, but he knows the numbers are higher than he likes to think about.

As he grew older and the humans of the world learned to adapt to their seasonal changings, the loss of life decreased and Jack Frost began to realize that death, while inescapable, should not be dismissed so casually. He knows in his heart that the season of winter is a time of death, but his center battles against his own nature.

He struggled for half a century with these thoughts and during the spring of 1968 he made a fatal mistake.

Spring was no time for the spirit of winter to be roaming Pennsylvania, but Jack had become restless during those years and become rebellious in nature. The place of his birth called to him in a way he could never explain and he found himself drawn there once more. Children were seen playing on the thinning ice, and Jack having a special place for children in his heart, wanted to keep them from harm and chose to thicken the ice. For while it was spring, the air was still brisk and ice was just beginning to melt. Children, having been told by their parents to not play on the lake, naturally decided to do just that. A young boy with shaggy brown hair and warm brown eyes, laughed as he felt his feet find firmer ground on the now hardened ice and began to run around. His friends, feeling the shift in the ice but also unwilling to dwell on the strange phenomenon, followed in their friends footsteps. Jack watched the children play for hours with a warm smile on his face, tossing the occasional snowball from the thickets of the forest to extend the playtime. He didn't notice the sun beginning to set and the moon slowly rise, until he felt someone watching him from afar. He turned away from the children to look into the woods but could see no one watching. Confused he searched nearby, thinking maybe one of the parents had come to find their child, but he saw no other presence in the woods besides his own. A blood-curdling scream drew his attention back towards the lake and the wind carried him as fast as it could. He arrived, wind howling with him, and saw the young boy lying on the ice that looked strangely like a watercolor painting. His friends surrounded him, screaming his name. Tears stung their cheeks, and voices caught in their throats as they screamed and screamed, with no one around to hear them but Jack Frost.

Jack approached the boy, looking into his brown eyes, which just minutes ago had been crinkled with laughter and wonder, but were now staring blankly up at Jack's own. Blood caked his brown hair and little streams ran into the ice, now cracked with red instead of its normal icy blue. Jack Frost sat there staring at this dead child, and for the life of him he could not look away until he heard a young girl crying out a name he was all too familiar with, "Jack… Jack… Jack."

With a final look at his beloved lake now stained red, Jack blacked out.

When he awoke he was surrounded. His whole world was white and with his heart sinking he knew what he had done. He reigned in the winter that was threatening to explode from his frail form and he gasped and gasped until he was sure he would suffocate from exhaustion. He sat for a while, unsure of where he was or what happened. He just sat and waited for the world to calm with him. When he regained some of his strength he took notice of his surroundings. He was no longer at his lake but in the middle of a town and his knees pressed to a road. He stood shakily and realized an Easter egg that had been crushed under his knee. He could see now with the snow no more than a light flurry of flakes descending from the heavens that the infamous Easter Bunny stood mere feet away from him, screaming at the top of his lungs. "You ruined Easter you blighter! Why do you have to ruin everything!"

Unable to think, unable to breathe, he said nothing and E. Aster Bunnymund taking the lack of silence as provocation started towards the young sprite. But the northern wind always looked out for Jack Frost. It wrapped around him in a warm embrace and lifted him off the ground. Jack taking the wind's cue flew off with him but not before being smacked with the Easter Bunny's boomerang on his lower back. He cried out in pain for a brief second before following the wind, all the while hearing Aster's cries of rage. It chanted in his ear over and over as he remembered the lifeless eyes of the little boy surrounded by his own blood on Jack's home. If Jack had scared the children away from his home rather than inviting them, maybe the boy would still be alive. Maybe he wouldn't have tripped and cracked his head open. Maybe Jack's home would've remained untainted.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Jack Frost doesn't remember the first life he had taken. But he remembers the last.

Winter doesn't get to choose, but somehow he felt like he did.

And he chose wrong.

Jack's eyes shot open. His body bolted upright, pain shot down his spine and lacerations on his torso burned. He shook as sweat beaded on his forehead, he could see nothing but darkness and for a second he believed he was dead. Then he noticed his long, pale fingers desperately clinging to sweat and blood soaked sheets. The bed creaked as he tried to adjust his position and his eyes began to adapt. The walls of the room didn't seem to be made by hand and instead the shadows seemed to be moving with them. He sat still, unsure if his body would actually be able to stand on its own. The pain was almost unbearable and he felt his vision start to grow dark again when he heard a chuckle echo off the cavern walls.

Just as he was about to turn his head a sharp finger brushed against his cheek and a smooth voice whispered in his ear, "Welcome back, Jack Frost."

The finger reached for his chin and turned his face slowly towards the voice. Two pale orbs stared into his own blue and he saw the glint of razor teeth gleam in the gloom. The other hand was brought up as it cupped his face and in his own amazement Jack Frost thought about how cold the hand of his enemy was upon his cheek.

Pitch's eyes shone and Jack could now see all of his teeth as they widened into a hideous smile. "It's been too long, Jack. I feel that we have some catching up to do."


	3. Dying Light

_Pitch's eyes shone and Jack could now see all of his teeth as they widened into a hideous smile. "It's been too long, Jack. I feel that we have some catching up to do."_

Jack's knuckles turned white as he clung to the bed sheets. In his mind he knew it would do nothing to protect him from Pitch, but with an almost childlike impulse he hid behind the sheets, shaking.

Pitch looked no different than the last time he had seen him, but something about the way he sat on the edge of Jack's bed unnerved him. Cold sweat slid down the nape of his neck and his lip trembled slightly.

Pitch's hand reached out almost delicately and tenderly held the side of Jack's head. "Are you scared, Jack?" He smiled and his teeth seemed to sharpen with each smile he showed Jack. Jack shivered against the touch but did not attempt to move away.

"You don't need to be frightened. I'm not going to hurt you… it seems someone else has already taken care of that." Pitch looked to the boys shaking body, lacerations and burns still decorating pale skin. "They definitely were… _thorough_." He chuckled and Jack shook even harder.

Pitch's hand traveled to the hollow of Jack's throat and his gripped tightened for a second before he let go. "Who did this to you Jack?"

Jack said nothing. His shaking seemed to increase and tears fell from his eyes as soundless sobs racked his body. Pitch leaned close, brushing tears from the boy's cheeks and shushing him. "Do not cry Jack. No one will hurt you here. You have my word."

Blue eyes met yellow and for a moment Pitch would swear he saw a desperate cry for help in those eyes before they shut once more with fresh tears leaving its trail on snowy skin. He could feel fear radiating off the boy's body and the feeling filled him entirely. The fear though was not aimed at him though; it was aimed at whoever had attempted to kill Jack. Pitch had never felt a fear this strong before in his life and he drunkenly grabbed Jack's face and hastily brushed all of his tears away.

"Your fear is simply _intoxicating_. What a lovely taste you are giving off, Jack." Pitch leaned close, face nuzzled in Jack's shoulder before his tongue trailed up Jack's cheek tasting the salt from the tears. Jack's sobs stopped and he looked at Pitch with wide eyes. The fear was still there but confusion now mingled with the taste. It sobered Pitch up a bit as he looked at his prisoner. Jack's hand rested on Pitch's shoulder, pushing slightly while Jack's other hand attempted to wipe the Nightmare King's saliva off of his face. Pitch chuckled before gently removing Jack's hand from his shoulder. "My apologies, sometimes fear that potent can send me into a tizzy." To show he actually meant his apology, Pitch scooted back on the bed to give Jack some space. Jack's fear slowly ebbed away until only confusion and distrust lingered on his face. Pitch missed the taste of fear but for purposes of having a conversation with the spirit of winter it was probably for the best.

"Now Jack I simply must know who attacked you. The build up is driving me crazy." Pitch grinned and Jack's blue eyes unwarily looked back into Pitch's yellow.

Pitch patiently waited for Jack to answer but when the boy gave none he simply sighed and stood. Pitch walked towards to the wall and retreated into the shadows.

Jack sat alone, confused as to why Pitch left. Darkness seemed to swirl around him though and he clung to the sheets even tighter. Fear started to flow through his veins and just when he thought he would start to cry again Pitch returned with a familiar object in his hand.

"I know I promised that I wouldn't hurt you Jack, but not answering the spirit that saved you from death is quite rude. Just consider this payment for the treatment." Pitch held Jack's Shepard's Crook out and Jack's eyes widened in terror. Pitch looked like he was about to snap it when Jack waved his arms above his head and Pitch stopped.

"Yes my boy, something to say?"

Jack looked helpless on the bed, his hands reached up to wrap around his throat and he shook his head. Pitch stared at him, confusion on his own face, until it dawned on him.

"Are you trying to say you lost your voice?" Jack hesitated for only a moment before he nodded. The staff dropped with a clatter as laughter rang through the cavern. Jack shivered, as the laughter seemed to go right through him. It was cold and ruthless, not the way laughter should be.

Pitch's laughter subsided and he chuckled, "Now that is something I never could have dreamed of. Shutting you up." He thought he would earn a glare at the comment but Jack just looked at him, desperation in his eyes.

"Well since you cannot talk, I will talk for the both of us." He grinned and returned to the bed. Jack scooted back until he was on the edge but Pitch made no move to get closer to him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his staff sink into darkness and his heart plummeted. He needed his staff.

"Do you remember how you got here Jack?"

Jack shook his head. The last thing he remembered was going home to his lake and everything after that had been black. But there was this terror that was clutching his heart. His muscles were tense and panic rose in his throat. He wasn't scared of Pitch, although the rational part of him told him he should be, but he was scared of whatever had attacked him. He couldn't remember who it was but this fear coursing through his body said enough. Whatever had hurt him hurt him more than just physically.

"You fell through the opening in my lair. Your descent was almost poetic. A fallen angel." Pitch smirked, hands capturing Jack's wrist. Jack tried to pull away but Pitch's gripped tightened. His thumb circled around his pulse and it seemed almost soothing if his nails hadn't been so sharp.

"You were unconscious and in much worse shape than you are now. You've been asleep for 16 days, Jack." Jack swallowed at that. He had never been asleep for that long, except in the warmer months when he went into hibernation. "I tried waking you but my efforts were in vain. Your body was weak and I feared you may die while recovering here… but I forgot how strong you are. You held on and now here we are, 16 days later." Pitch smiled, thumb still circling Jack's wrist. Jack raised his free hand and made a writing gesture in the air. Pitch's smiled widened and he reached into the shadows before retrieving a pen and paper. He let go of Jack's wrist and handed the boy the pen and pad. Jack's handwriting was clumsy and many of the words were misspelled. Pitch didn't know if the boy ever learned how to properly write but he could decipher from the scrawl Jack's question, "What are you going to do with me?"

Pitch chuckled, and the darkness in the room seemed to chuckle with him. "Like I said Jack, I will not hurt you unless you give me a reason to. For now you are my guest. I want you to rest and get better."

Jack looked puzzled at the answer but nodded in response. He definitely didn't believe Pitch's story but he bent down to scribble another question anyways, "When can I leave?"

"In due time. First you must be get better, and maybe we can figure out what attacked you as well."

In due time might as well mean never to Jack. He could tell by the way Pitch looked at him, as if he were some plaything for the lonely Nightmare King. He had no delusions, he was no guest. He was a hostage. Most likely a hostage for the Guardians. Jack wanted to find his staff, to have some kind of weapon to defend himself against Pitch but he couldn't even stand on his own two feet. He did need to heal, even if he didn't like healing in Pitch's palace. But looking at the boogeyman Jack couldn't also help but feel some gratitude. If Pitch had not tended to his wounds Jack surely would've… disappeared. He was not entirely familiar with how spirits leave this plane, but he did know that spirits could die. Just maybe not die in the way humans do. The fact that Jack could get wounded was proof enough that he was not immortal as so many spirits believed themselves to be.

Jack bent down to write down one more thing and this time it was not a question. Pitch couldn't help the surprise that flitted onto his face as he read the note, "Thank you."

He expected Jack to be angry, to be fearful. Not to be… thankful. When he looked into the younger spirits eyes he could see no sign of trickery, only genuine gratitude. Pitch almost sputtered but composed himself last minute. "Think nothing of it. You will return the favor when I need it."

Jack gave a small smile and nodded his head. Pitch said nothing more as he faded back into shadows leaving Jack alone with dread pooling in his stomach. He knew that Pitch was trying to take advantage of him in his fragile state but Jack wouldn't allow him to have his way. He would play along to keep the boogeyman from snapping his staff once again… or worse going after his friends. He would make him think that he was on Pitch's side and would escape when the moment was right.

As Jack lay back down in bed, eyes growing heavy, he could hear water dripping from the caverns head and a small memory came back to him of blood dripping down his fingertips, hitting the floor. _Plip. Plip. Plip._

Jack curled into himself, new tears brimming at his eyes and he could feel the shadows closing in, drawn to his fear. He tried whispering to himself reassurances but the only sound to escape his lips were ragged breaths as sobs racked his body once again.


End file.
